The Trio Remains
by fille de soleil
Summary: Ron and Hermione split up after four years of marriage. Hermione moves in with Harry temporarily. Friendship development, possible romance, and reworking the dynamic the Trio had in school. Harry is changed by death, and only feels understood by R and H.
1. Chapter 1

Ron and Hermione had been married for five years before they decided to get a divorce. It was typically messy, although they hadn't had any kids, so it wasn't as bad as it might have been. Harry was their go-between, remaining a faithful friend to each throughout the process. He himself was single; he and Ginny had broken off their relationship amiably two years after Voldemort's Fall, and they were still friends. Harry had never quite been the same after dying and being reborn: people usually didn't see things exactly his way, and Harry found most daily activities pointless exercises void of meaning. In fact, the only people who truly understood him in all the five years after V-Day (as folks of the wizard world often called the last day of the War) were Ron and Hermione. And now they were splitting up.

Harry only hoped the two would somehow overcome their differences and be friends again. He was actually looking forward to them not living together – for not a day of the five years had gone by without some argument playing out in the Weasley house. He was, of course, used to their bickering and fighting and silent treatments from Hogwarts, but it had increased with every year they had spent together. Their love, Ron told Harry on a night he had spent in his mate's cottage on the West coast, was not enough to withstand her ridiculous standards or, as Hermione sobbed to Harry's jumper the next afternoon, Ron's obnoxious habits and juvenile pleasures. Harry stood by both friends, insisting only to not be called upon to speak against either Ron or Hermione; although the divorce forever soured Mrs Weasley's view of Hermione, things mostly settled down after the marriage vows' magic had been countered at the Ministry of Magic, and all documents mentioning the union had been altered.

As the house Ron and Hermione had shared was a gift from Mr and Mrs Weasley, Ron was its legal owner; so it was on the classically wet, stormy night of the marriage's end that Hermione arrived on Harry's porch, her hair especially frizzy, with a small parcel in one hand and her wand in the other.

'Harry,' She said quickly as he opened the door to the chilling wind. 'I know I said I'd be staying with my parents in London, but my uncle's in town from Germany and my Gran's in the hospital for an eye surgery, and the house is full, and –'

'Hermione be quiet.' Harry cut in, standing back from the door to let her through. 'This house has three bedrooms I don't use, and you could probably magic up a spare if it didn't.' She smiled weakly at him and shuffled through to the boot room, water dripping off a slightly glowing bubble around her.

'I never did learn the anti-wet charm properly,' Harry remarked with good natured envy. 'Flitwick'd be proud.' This coaxed a broader smile from his friend, and he led her to the nicest of his three spare rooms.

It faced the rocky cliff, which could be seen through the welcoming window-seat in more climate weather; the high four-posted bed was covered with a quilt Mrs Weasley had made for the Harry, the colours of the sea and canopied with fine white netting; a small white dresser stood on one wall, and a night stand with a mirror and washing bowl and pitcher was beside the bed. Ginny had decorated it and painted the walls a delicate shell green, and admonished Harry to put all female guests there. He felt the shadow of a smile on his face as he thought of how she had loved having money for once in her life: she had dressed both of them well, created the little piece of heaven where Harry still lived, and convinced Harry to travel with her: Ireland, France (to visit Fleur's family), Hungary (to say hullo to Viktor Krum and play some Quidditch), China, Egypt (Ginny got back in touch with the friends she had made while visiting there as a child), finally to Greece and the ancient ruins there. It had been fun, educational, good for Harry, and Ginny was ecstatic; Harry only wished he could have stayed in love with her, yet he knew they were both better off for it all.

Hermione came into the Sea Room (every room had a theme: sea, forrest, blue willow, Gryffindor for Harry's), sighed gratefully, and sank onto the trunk at the foot of the bed.

'Do you have anything – clothes, books – did you forget to pack?' Harry asked. Hermione looked up, surprised, and chuckled.

'Harry, you are so silly, sometimes I wonder which of us has more muggle blood!' She brandished the parcel. 'Just a simple shrinking charm, lightweight spell, and it all fits so nicely into this valse.' Harry blinked.

'Oh. Right. Well, you forgot you could conjure fire that one time first year. But,' he hastened to say as Hermione opened her moth with a retort 'Of course you were only eleven. And had just escaped Fluffy.'

'Harry, has your memory always been so good?' He shook his head, went to the bed and folded down the covers.

'I think dying has a way of sharpening everything you've lived through,' he said softly. Hermione didn't reply; she conjured a candlestick and Harry lit it with a gentle flick of his wand. It was like that with Ron and Hermione: they understood Harry, knew what he needed knew the value of silence; he could only hope to be as good a friend to each of them in return.

***

Harry woke early, with the sun as he always did. The morning dawned, all remains of last night's storming washed away. He took the path which laced its way down the cliff to the rocky beach below; he had broken a light sweat when he reached the pebbled shore, but it was still cold in the land's shadow. Working fast to keep off the chill, Harry stripped (magicking a bubble round his clothes to keep them clean and in place) and ran into the water. He swam with powerful long-practiced strokes, slicing through the waves in flashes of water droplets; he had begun swimming every morning to wake himself up and remind himself how to stay alive not long after V-Day, and the habit stuck. The currant was strong, and he tacked his way back to shore, finally body-surfing on the rollers to land. The cliff still hid the sun, and Harry shivered before quickly casting a drying spell and dressing for the climb back up.

He loped across the yard and into the house, pointing his wand at the stove before he noticed the frying pan already on a fire, three eggs sizzling in it. He whipped around to see Hermione sitting at the medieval kitchen table (a darkly stained heirloom from his father's family pitted and scratched in years long gone). She was reading from a large leather-bound book that hovered above her lap, and a page had just turned as she got to the bottom of it; she looked up when Harry came in though, and a book mark rushed to place as she absently nodded the book to fall shut on the table.

'Morning, Harry. Had a nice swim?' She asked with genuine cheerfulness. Her tears were long since spent (mostly into Harry's shirtfront) over Ron, and it was now merely a relief to be out of magic contract and away from the perpetual arguments. Besides, it was impossible to wake up to a beautiful day in Cliff's Cottage and not feel wonderful: there was something in the air, some nameless magic which lightened the spirit and cleared the mind.

Harry, relieved to see her at ease, nodded and sat opposite her on the long oaken bench. He lay a small white seashell on the dark, worn tabletop, and pushed it towards her.

'For you, because you can't see your mother right now.' He flipped it over and the iridescent Mother-of-Pearl interior glowed in the morning sun.

Hermione practically giggled. 'Thank you, Harry, that's every so kind of you,' she said, delicately fingering the shell. 'Say, look! This could be strung as a necklace!' She pointed to the tiny hole through one corner, perfectly round. Harry smiled. 'I put it there. Here,' he said, and conjured a fine chain from his room. 'Put it on this.'

Hermione did this, and fastened it around her neck.

'Oh Harry, it's really lovely. Thank you ever so much!' She reached across the table and squeezed his hand, before jumping up in alarm.

'The eggs! Oh dear, I hope they haven't burnt!' Harry laughed mildly, and waved his hand behind him; the pan lifted off the stove, a kettle began to boil, toast was popped down in the toaster, and the kitchen went about making breakfast.

'Don't worry, Hermione. Ginny bought no-burn pans and we placed anti-fire charms on everything in here. I couldn't botch a meal if I tried to!' Hermione sank down to the bench in relief, but her eyes were glued to the very active kitchen.

'Harry, even I don't know how to charm a full meal with no human assistance.' She looked appraisingly at him. 'That's quite a skill.'

'I've had loads of practice: I truly hate cooking, so I figured out how to avoid it. You could learn too, it's really no big deal,' Harry babbled. His pale cheeks had actually blushed pink; he could do magic Hermione couldn't? Five years out of school and this was still a rather exciting rarity. He felt the urge to tell Ron, but then remembered why Hermione was staying at his house with chagrin.

Hermione meanwhile was inspecting his job, watching two table settings bob merrily to the table and a pot of coffee being brewed.

'It's quite marvelous, Harry. All these simultaneous actions, and the toast is even buttered!' She walked back to the table where a full breakfast was being laid out.

The sugar bowl and cream pitcher stood expectantly at Harry's elbow.

'Now see here,' He said to them. 'We have company. What have I told you about company? Go serve her first!'

The two condiments rather huffily marched across the table and stood at attention by Hermione's coffee; the sugar bowl tapped its foot; Hermione's mouth hung agape.

'You have to tell them how much you want. Sorry, they're terribly rude, but I can't seem to teach them manners.'

She shook her head and snapped her jaw shut. 'Right, of course. Er, two sugars and a lot of cream, please?' As the bowl and pitcher went to work, Hermione giggled and began to eat.

'You know, it reminds me of this muggle movie I saw when I was a little girl, The Adventures of –'

'Alice in Wonderland,' Harry finished with her, and they both burst out laughing.

'I saw it too, in school, I think.' Harry said. 'That's where I got the idea!'

'My, isn't it funny how long ago that seems? Living without magic, I mean.' Harry nodded, digging into his scrambled eggs. 'Ron never understands my interest in muggles, their history and cultures and such. He always thinks I a bit off for liking them, like his dad.'

Shrugging (a move Harry commonly made in discussions about his friends) Harry said, 'I suppose he just doesn't have the background to understand or appreciate muggles.' Harry himself had been happy to leave all non-magic people and things behind, but he knew he associated everything muggle with the Dursleys, and was as biased as Ron, if more thoughtful.

They spent the rest of breakfast in easy silence, as only true friends can enjoy, broken only by Hermione's occasional comments and exclamations about Harry's expert kitchen magic and Harry's embarrassed denials of any such expertise.

After breakfast Hermione took to the window seat in her room and resumed reading (a 'fascinating record of the Roman warlocks' invasion of Britain in AD 43!') and Harry set to editing a paper he was writing on proper disarming techniques for his Auror training.

Suddenly a large tawny owl swept through the window, dropped a note from its beak, and settled onto the vacant owl perch by the window. Harry snatched the letter from the air before it could land, and glanced at the front. It was from Ron, and Harry ripped open the seal and set to well-practiced deciphering of Ron's scrawl.

_Harry,_

_Hermione left last night, as you know. I thought she was to stay with her parents, but they sent word (missed her) that they would see her for some wedding of her uncle's. Hoping she's with you - although I would like to come over. Perhaps when she's out? Send word please. _

_Mum wants you to come to George's birthday party next week, don't know why she couldn't write you herself._

_Ron_

Harry hastily penned a reply,

_Ron,_

_Hermione's here and well. Hope you are okay too. I'll come visit tomorrow? Tell Molly I'll be there._

_Harry_

sealed it, and gave the letter and a treat to Ron's owl, who swept gracefully out.

________

Please review if you like or dislike my story; I would appreciate feedback, suggestions, or general comments just to know that you've read it!


	2. Chapter 2

That evening after dinner (Harry's rather tragic attempt at meatloaf was only salvageable by magic) Harry went to the broom closet and got out his Firebolt.

'Come outside,' He said to Hermione, who followed somewhat dubiously.

'You know I'm terrified of flying, Harry. You can't expect me to get on that - that - thing?' Harry laughed at her ridiculous fear.

'Hermione, I could fly in my sleep (have, too, once or twice)." She looked unimpressed.

'However good you are at flying makes no difference to me, I simply don't – woah, woah, seriously Harry!' Hermione dived out of Harry's reach as he tried to grab her. He backed off and tried a different tactic, his voice soft and wheedling.

'It's only to get down the cliff. If we don't fly we'll have to climb down, and the path is really steep and long...' He trailed off, hoping to lure her into agreeing to the broom; he was successful.

'Oh, alright.

'Harry, sometimes I wonder how you do that,' She mused while he situated her in front of him on the broomstick.

'Do what? (Hold the handle tight, here under my hands),' he asked, and gently lifted off the ground with a nudge of his feet.

'Change my mind about things, without arguing or anything at all,' She answered, holding the broomstick with white-knuckled hands, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. 'Say, are we going to stand here all day?'

'Open your eyes! We're in the air already,' Harry grinned, unable to resist the amazing feeling he got whenever he flew; it had been months since he got the Firebolt out, and it was exhilarating.

He could hear Hermione's gasp and feel her body seize up; she was silent, although out of fear or acceptance Harry was unsure. He made sure to keep the Firebolt parallel to the ground as they flew to the edge of the cliff and slowly circled down, down, down, to a gentle landing on a particularly flat boulder. Hermione gratefully swung her leg over the broom, happy to be on solid ground again; in her haste to be off the Firebolt however, she had moved too close to the edge. Harry saw, as if in slow motion, Hermione tip backwards, her feet slipping on the ages-old rock face, her eyes widening in surprise and fear, her arms reaching out, suspended on the wind. Six years of quidditch training for speed, eight of doing battle with dark wizards for clear-headedness, twelve of a fast and true friendship – these conjured a magic more powerful than any he could produce with a wand. The world was back up to tempo, but Hermione was still falling in slow motion, as if through water, and she came to rest on the pebbled beach below. Harry blinked, and realized he was gasping for breath. He jumped on his broom and flew down to where Hermione was lying.

'Oh my god, Hermione. Are you okay?' He knelt by her and she stirred and pushed herself up on her elbows.

'Harry?'

'Yeah, it's me, you're okay, right? I mean, you fell really slowly, and you're not injured,' He was quickly scanning her for any indication of a problem, a technique acquired during the War.

'Harry?' He paused, as if only then noticing her query. 'Harry, how did you do that?'

'I - well, I think - I mean, I wasn't trying to do any magic. I should have just summoned you or something.' He instantly felt stupid. He hadn't even tried to save her, he had just watched dumbfounded.

'That was incredible!' Hermione now sat up, and her face was glowing in the first genuine smile he had seen on her in weeks – no, months.

'What? How? What are you talking about?' Harry was still slightly dumbfounded.

'As I was falling. I felt completely safe, as though I was being held in great arms. And there was music, wonderful, haunting – now I can hardly remember it, but I heard it,' She looked lost in a dream, and Harry marveled at what had occurred. Had he really conjured all that? She seemed to see the disbelief in his face.

'But it was certainly you who did it. It was so, I don't know, so _Harry_, I could just feel you in it.' He turned to stare out to sea; the horizon glowed red and gold, purple and silver, orange and pink.

'Look,' he murmured. 'It's what I brought you here to see. Ireland gives us beautiful sunsets.'

They watched as the glowing orb sank into the water, the colours intensifying and then gradually fading to a grey-blue twilight.

Harry flew them right to the back door, and only let her get off after he had; but his worries were scoffed at by Hermione: she now had complete confidence in him, and had even enjoyed the flight back to the top of the cliff. He wondered at the difference in her, palpable in the air, in her expression. Inspired by her levity, Harry pulled out his favorite book of stories, _Tales of King Arthur,_ a battered and very old edition, and offered to read aloud.

'I love _Arthur_! What a lovely idea, Harry.'

They settled into opposite wingback chairs in front of the empty hearth and Harry opened the book to a well worn place.

'"_The doomed Tristan and his love, La Belle Isolde, they who met in humble honesty and who loved with the greatest passion in all time,"_' Harry began...

'_"...And so it came to pass that Isolde heard of her Tristan's death, and so she buried him in a Roman ruin and planted two trees, hazel and honeysuckle, on his grave. Then Isolde of the White Hands forever disappeared."_'

Hermione's face was streaked with tears, a mournful smile playing at her lips. Harry's eyes prickled and felt damp.

'How beautifully tragic,' She whispered, as though the story still hung on the air and she might disturb it else wise.

Harry looked up at her sniffling. 'Hermione! I didn't mean to make you sad,'

She waved off his concern. 'That was pure poetry and I wouldn't have it any other way. Thank you for reading: you really make it come alive,' Hermione sounded almost bashful as she said this. Harry blushed (cursing his obvious pale skin), pleased but embarrassed at the compliment.

They sat in amicable silence for a few long minutes, and then, as friends are wont to do, got up simultaneously and walked to the hall. Harry stopped with Hermione at her bedroom door and hugged her goodnight. She returned the embrace, resting comfortably against his lithe frame; both were remembering the strange magic at sunset.

Then they released each other and Harry continued to his room.

A few minutes later, the candle lights in the two west windows flickered out, and all was still.

_______________

This is not the end! I'll be writing more soon (hopefully) and I promise more will happen.

Again, I would appreciate reviews more than I can rightly say. It's not hard to do and it means loads to me!

Thanks, Victoria


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